Chapter 21
Anywhere
Alexa
Harlow lowers his head, his brow pulling tight. It is obvious something is eating at him, but when he finally speaks, the words still hit hard enough to make my face burn.
I want to crawl straight into the dirt and disappear. If only I had been wiser. If only I had known how to stop myself.
“I ain’t got anything,” he says quietly. “I’m just a broke rogue. I can’t give you what you’re looking for.” His lips press together, like that settles it.
The pounding in my chest turns painful, each beat spreading through my ribs, my arms, my legs. Rejection aches everywhere, but stubbornness keeps me upright.
“But you have what I need,” I say. Peace. I crave it more than anything.
He frowns. “You sure about that?”
His voice is low, steady, testing me. A wall rises between us, sudden and sharp. It pushed me away from the instinct screaming inside me, from everything that whispers of a true mate.
“Gabriel’s a better fit for you,” he says, the words coming faster now. “Status. Power. Money. Glory. You’d be unstoppable together.”
The distance is there again. Just when I think we might finally be moving closer, he steps back. My eyes sting, but I cling to the thin thread of hope I still have.
“I don’t need any of that,” I say, my voice shaking. “Being a Lycan already makes us different. They even call me a monster because I can’t control my wolf. What’s the point of showing it off just to end up a cursed Luna?”
Tears blur my vision. My lips press together, folding inward as I fight to hold myself together, but the truth spills out anyway.
“Gabriel doesn’t love me.” I wipe at my cheeks and pull my knees in tight, clinging to them like they can hold me together. “He wants what I can give him. Status. Pure Alpha blood heirs. Alastair’s the same.” The words taste bitter.
I’m not sure about Romero. He might be my mate. From the way he treats me, even without knowing my real name, my status, the magic inside me, or even that I’m a Lycan, I can tell he would be a good partner. Maybe even a perfect one.
But that nightmare, on the night I spent with him, leave me uneasy. What if he dies because of me? Worse… what if that dream means I will be the one who kills him? I killed my father while I wasn’t even conscious. I can’t bear the thought of bringing another man to his last breath.
“I don’t want my life getting more tangled than it already is,” I say in frustration.
My tears come harder, clogging my nose, making it hard to breathe. I can’t stop them. I bow my head and bury my face in my knees. The flannel against my chest darkens as it soaks up my tears.
“I just want to live in peace,” I whisper, like the sky itself might be listening.
Harlow moves without a word. He cups the back of my head and pulls me into his chest. His warmth surrounds me, steady and solid. My tears soak into his shirt, but he doesn’t pull away. The ache in my back fades into nothing compared to the pain in my heart.
Somewhere deep down, I know he understands. I just know it.
For years, I’ve endured. I’ve pretended to be strong through loss and disappointment. All the training at Southern Star never touched the wounds that matter.
Gabriel’s bounty made it clear all over again. People will do cruel, selfish things for their own gain. Titles and crowns mean nothing if they cage you.
Now that I’ve learned the truth about my father, I can’t even bring myself to stand in front of his grave.
How am I supposed to apologize for what I did?
How can I lead the Silver Moon Pack as their Luna with my hands still stained with his blood?
I would become the biggest joke of all if I ever took that position.
Being with Harlow feels like the safest choice. We would live in peace, far from pack politics and power struggles. He always knows how to comfort me and I can give him the same in return.
I can be his loyal companion. We can be the perfect Lycan mates.
He sits still, his hand moving in a slow, rhythmic stroke over my head, calming me like a frightened child. When my crying finally slows, I pull back, wiping my face. I don’t know how much time passes, but by the time my tears dry, a different emotion settles in my heart.
“So,” he murmurs.
“Take me with you, Harlow.” My fingers tighten around his arm. “Take me far from them. Anywhere. I don’t care where, as long as it’s with you.”
I hold his gaze, steady and sure. His brown eyes search my face, weighing my words, looking for the truth.
“You really think we’re mates?” he asks.
“Yes.” Anger trembles beneath my whisper. “The Moon Goddess got it wrong with the others.”
He studies me. “You certain?”
“Yes. You’re not my mistake.” My voice steadies. “We’re both Lycans. This is what real fated mates look like.”
The pattern clicks into place all at once. All the dreams, all the longing for something that has been missing. My breath hitches, every inhale growing harder.
His thumb lifts and brushes my lips. He pauses, waiting. I nod. He leans in and closes the space between us.
I draw in a breath and hold it as our lips meet. The warmth is unfamiliar and electric, sending small shocks through my body as his kiss deepens, slow and testing at first.
When I close my eyes, I feel no fear. Only his hands cradling my neck and cheeks. The softness of his mouth. The sweetness that makes us both braver.
His hands slide to my waist, pulling me closer. His kiss grows more insistent, his tongue pressing deeper, our breaths tangling together.
“Ouch,” I gasp as pain shoots through my back.
Harlow pulls away at once, gripping my shoulders. “You alright?”
“I guess I’m not healed all the way yet,” I say with a weak chuckle.
He studies my face, then his expression shifts. “Then we do this right.” His knuckles brush my cheek. “We do a healing ritual.”
“But…”
“I’ll give you my energy,” he says firmly. “It’ll be safe. For both of us.”
* * *
I turn my back to Harlow, my flannel shirt now hanging open at my waist. It still half covers my chest and parts of my lower arms.
Goosebumps creep along my skin, knowing his eyes are on my back, studying every inch. The thought alone makes my nipples harden, desire stirring low and slow inside me.
But he has to see it. He needs to focus his energy on the open wound there. He’s not a professional healer or a practiced magic user, but visual focus increases the chance of a successful energy transfer.
My mouth begins chanting a magical hymn, loud enough for only the two of us to hear inside the tent. The bandage is removed, exposing the gaping wound on my back.
He adds tactile focus, placing his hand close to the wound so the energy can pass directly. All of this increases the chance of quick healing, but his fingers burn against my skin, searing hot, making me tremble at the roughness of his touch.
I close my eyes and focus on accepting his energy into my body, hoping my concentration is strong enough to carry the ritual through without being pulled apart by the desire creeping in.
“For every pain, there will be a remedy,” I chant.
With every repetition, heat blooms in my wound. Again and again, until it feels like I might break apart into ash. On the tenth chant, the heat fades. My skin cools. We have succeeded.
Behind me, Harlow’s breath is rough against my neck after the chant stops. His head rests on my shoulder. Sweat beads on his forehead, warm and damp where it brushes my skin.
“Harlow, you alright?” I turn my head, glancing at him over my shoulder.
Both his arms wrap tightly around my waist. “I can keep going,” he says between heavy breaths. “We can do it again.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t feel pain anymore. It’s healed.”
I try to straighten up, but he holds me still, pulling me closer until his flannel brushes my bare back.
“But the scar’s still there,” he says, stubborn.
“I’m a Lycan. It’ll be gone by tomorrow, won’t it?”
He goes quiet for a moment. “Yeah,” he finally murmurs, breath still uneven. “You’re right.”
He presses a small kiss to the back of my neck. The spark ignites instantly, the same desire that has been gnawing at me from the start. My head tips against his shoulder, a soft moan slipping free.
One of my hands reaches up, fingers threading into his hair as I lean into him. His lips and the slow sweep of his tongue along my neck make pleasure bloom sharp and dizzying. My eyes fall shut while my other hand grips his thigh.
Moans slip from my mouth as his tongue grows bolder, exploring my healed neck. His hands slide from my waist to my breasts. The sharp scent of mint and pine fills my senses as his fingers find my nipples, twisting and stroking, teasing without mercy.
“Harlow,” I gasp, breath breaking.
“Hm?” His voice is low, distracted.
I’m already lost in him. Heat throbs in my lower belly, sending pulsing waves through me. My thighs tense and press together, trying to ease the ache between them.
“Aren’t you tired after the ritual?” I murmur.
“I’ve got plenty left,” he says, voice rough.
One of his hands drops to my waist, fingers fumbling with the clasp of my jeans. When he fails, I take over, loosening them myself. I push them down and off, until only the flannel caught at my elbows covers me.
“Whose pants are those, anyway?” I ask, embarrassed, as the denim lands on the pillow.
“Mine,” he growls. “Open wide.”
He grips my knees and spreads them apart. I do exactly as he says. The anticipation snaps tight when his thumb press against my clit.
“Ah, yes,” I moan as sensation surges through me.
It builds fast. His fingers flick my clit, one hand still working my nipple, his tongue warm and demanding at my neck. He is everywhere in this cramped tent, driving my pleasure higher, my heartbeat pounding hard.
“Wider,” he whispers against my ear, like a plea he already knows I will answer.
I open my legs more and lean back into his chest. His warmth surrounds me. His movements take me apart. Shocks ripple through me from the inside out. The hard bulge in his pants presses firmly against my lower back.